


The Case At 221A, Baker Street (1887)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [69]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: 221A Baker Street, 221B Baker Street, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, Killing, M/M, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-29 22:18:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10863210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: People coming and soliciting Sherlock's help was one thing, but when we start getting dead bodies delivered to Baker Street.... well!





	The Case At 221A, Baker Street (1887)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saylee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saylee/gifts), [ginger_angel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginger_angel/gifts).



> Mentioned elsewhere as 'the case of the Grosvenor Square removal van'. At the time of this story, the term 'van' referred not to a motorized transport vehicle as it does today (1936), but to a reinforced horse-drawn covered goods cart.

One of the most famous elements of what eventually became the Legend of Mr. Sherlock Holmes was our third home together, 221B Baker Street, from which he solved the vast bulk of his cases. As this story concerns that house and its origins, I am going to take this opportunity to accede to the requests from several of my readers, and tell them a little about one of the most famous houses in London Town.

We had moved into 221B subsequent to (and partly as a result of) the events relayed in “The Adventure of the Yellow Face”, in 'Eighty-Three. As I have mentioned before, the house was the right-hand third (i.e. the southern end) of what had once been a single building, which had been one of the original houses erected when the builder Mr. William Baker had laid the street out in 1755, during the reign of King George the Second. Mr. Edward Harley, who had inherited the title Earl Oxford and Mortimer that same year, wished to mark his accession by obtaining a three-storey country house near the City, and paid for the building of this one of Mr. Baker's planned properties, which due to that gentleman's Welsh roots was known as Glendower Mansion. That the city of Oxford was also where I had my first meeting with Sherlock was just one of those strange coincidences.

With the relentless expansion of the Great Wen ever northwards, the house acquired its number (221) some time after the turn of the nineteenth century (this in itself often caused confusion, as the two halves of Baker Street ended up being numbered separately, which is why the even numbers in the lower part of the street feed into the odd numbered houses in the upper part, and why the numbers also 'flow' in different directions). In 1853 the death of Edward Harley's great-nephew Alfred led to the earldom dying out, although a similar title was resurrected some eleven years ago (1925) for the former prime minister Mr. Herbert Asquith, who after some objections from the relatives of the old earl became Earl of Oxford and Asquith until his death three years later, the title then passing to his grandson Julian. 

Back to Glendower Mansion, which on Earl Alfred's death was sold to a developer who divided it into three still sizable family dwellings, numbered 221, 221A and 221B. The third of these subsequently passed into the possession of Mr. and Mrs. William Harvelle, which was how we found our own home there. And this story concerns one of our neighbours in 221A (not directly; our rooms lay on the opposite side from the dividing wall, and their rooms were at the back) - neighbours who, on moving in, found a most unwelcome addition had appeared amongst their worldly goods. 

A dead body.

+~+~+

This case was brought to our attention by our illustrious landlady, who knocked at our door one day and was bade to enter. I looked up in surprise; I was sure that had not been the usual bell that presaged her advent with a client.

“I was wondering, sirs”, she said, “if you could see your way to entertaining a visit from the two ladies who have just moved in next door.”

I had seen the 'Grosvenor Square Furniture And Household Removals Company Incorporated' van parked outside next door when I had come back from my walk and, besides thinking that they possibly might benefit from a snappier company name, had thought little more of it at the time.

“Of course”, Sherlock smiled. “Did they mention what it is about?”

She shook her head.

“They are two elderly ladies, sirs, and I would go so far to say they are positively _distressed_ ”, she said emphasizing the word. “Beth – Mrs. Harrison – advised that they call the police over the matter, but they were absolutely horrified at the idea, so she suggested that they might see you first, and you could then see Sergeant Henriksen for them.”

I bit back the uncharitable but quite accurate thought they we were highly unlikely to have the sergeant visit us by chance that day, as Mrs. Harvelle was not baking. The slight smile on my friend's face suggested that he was thinking much the same.

“It sounds most intriguing”, he said. “Pray send them up directly.”

She nodded, and left. A few moments later she returned with our visitors. They were both indeed elderly, but clearly ladies of quality. They were also, as our landlady had said, quite distressed. Sherlock pulled chairs out for them at the table and Mrs. Harvelle left, promising to send up tea and cakes shortly.

“It is so kind of you to see us like this, Mr. Holmes”, the taller of the two ladies said, addressing me. “Letitia and I have read all your cases avidly; we knew of course that you lived next door, but in light of.... well, it seems like Providence!”

I smiled.

“Actually, I am Doctor Watson”, I said, gesturing to my friend who was also smiling slightly. “That is Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

They both turned to look at him, and the taller of the two actually simpered at him. Honestly, she was old enough to be his grandmother! What was it about the man? 

No I was not jealous! The very idea!

“My name is Charlotte Beringar”, the simpering siren said, “and this is my sister Letitia. We were due to move into our new rooms next door today, but... but....”

She ground to a halt and looked appealingly at her sister, who took up the tale. 

“We used to own a small house in Grosvenor Square”, the shorter lady began. “It was old, run-down, and falling to pieces around us, but we loved it. However, it was becoming too much for us, especially after our only tenant came into a small inheritance and moved out to his own place. But then we had a piece of good luck. A representative of the Belgian government, a Mr. Vermery or some such name, offered to buy the house at considerably above its market value.”

“Why?” I asked suspiciously.

“His government was looking to obtain an address in the Square”, Letitia Beringar explained. “Their country has an embassy in London, but it is only a small one. We were very fortunate; the Smiths next door accepted the offer made to them, and our foreign purchaser told us that his country plans to knock the two houses into one, although they will need one of the other adjoining properties to make it larger still. He had to return to Belgium before the sale went through, but another Belgian gentleman took over, a Mr. Fallaheim or something. I can never remember foreign names, even though our capital seems to be getting full of them.”

“We hired a company to move all our worldly goods from the old house”, Charlotte Beringar continued. “Or at least the ones we wanted to keep; when we sorted through our belongings, it was amazing just how many accoutrements one acquires over the years.”

“Yes”, her sister put in, “and _that_ was what caused our current unhappy predicament!”

“How so?” Sherlock asked politely.

“We found that our old wardrobe had become rotten at the back”, Charlotte Beringar said, “so we decided to acquire a new one. I had recently visited a friend who lives near the docks, and had seen a most delightful old piece in an antique shop owned by a business acquaintance of hers. The man kindly gave me the measurements, so I could make sure that it would fit in our new home, and when it did, we decided to buy it. I went back there to complete the sale two days ago. The removals men went over to the shop to pick it up for us this morning, then came back to the square to collect the rest of our belongings. Once they were here, they placed everything in the rooms as we had requested, and left.”

“I did not like that Mr. Gull”, her sister said sourly. “He was not at all careful with the boxes. And he smelt of _alcohol_!”

She might have well accused the man of murdering a puppy in front of her, from her tone!

“That is true”, Charlotte Beringar admitted. “Howsoever, we then set about starting to unpack, I opened our new wardrobe, and.... and....”

Her sister reached a supporting hand across. 

“And inside was a man's body, Mr. Holmes!" Letitia Beringar almost wailed. Quite dead!”

Sherlock nodded sympathetically, then seemed to deliberate for quite a while before speaking.

“Ladies”, he said, “you have undergone a terrible experience, and through no fault of your own. Clearly this matter must be investigated by the police.”

Both ladies shuddered delicately at that prospect.

“I shall send a message round to my good friend Sergeant Henriksen”, Sherlock said reassuringly. “He is _most_ discreet, and I trust him implicitly. Once he arrives, we shall examine the body more closely. Am I to assume that the poor man is still in your rooms, Miss Beringar?”

Charlotte Beringar nodded fitfully.

“That is good”, Sherlock said with a smile. He took a card from his card-case and wrote something on the back of it before turning back to the taller sister. “Miss Beringar, Doctor Watson will accompany you next door, where you must pack a bag for a period of some nights away from your new house. Although it is not technically the scene of a crime, I suspect that neither of you would wish to stay there just now.”

“Indeed not!” Charlotte Beringar said forcefully. “But where shall we go? I do not wish to call unannounced on any of our friends, if I can avoid it.”

Sherlock handed her the card. 

“When you are finished packing, the doctor will bring you back here, and then obtain a cab for you and your sister”, he said. He gestured to the card. “That hotel is where my brother Gaylord is the manager. Ask at the desk for him by name, show him this card, and he will supply you with a room free of charge for as long as is necessary.”

“But sir....”

“I insist”, Sherlock said firmly. “Besides, once this story reaches the papers, they may send journalists round to ask questions. And that cannot be long; I have seen a small crowd gathering outside already. They will of course lose interest after a few days, but I would not wish either of you dear ladies to be subject to that. Doubtless Sergeant Henriksen will call to collect your statements later today, but we shall cross that bridge when we come to it. Now, doctor, if you please?”

I stood and offered my arm to a shocked Charlotte Beringar, who hesitated only briefly before taking it and following me from the room. Though she still managed one last simper at Sherlock. Honestly!

+~+~+

Half an hour later, the simpering sisters were safely dispatched to one of the best hotels in London, and Sherlock, Henriksen and myself were standing in the larger of the two bedrooms of Room Three in 221A Baker Street. It was in most ways a standard Victorian bedroom, except possibly for the dead young man half-hanging out of the wardrobe. 

“They could have tidied him up a bit”, the sergeant grumbled, as he and I gently lifted the body and laid it out on one of the beds (having of course first checked that there was no bleeding; I did not want the Beringars to get that sort of welcome-home present!). 

I glanced out of the window, and sighed. Sherlock had been right; there was already a sizable crowd gathered outside 221A. Luckily we had been able to avoid them as Mrs. Harrison had let us through the normally locked connecting door. 

I turned back, and began to examine the dead man. He had been in his early twenties, and there was something distinctly foreign about him with his long nose and over-perfumed auburn hair. He was wearing a shabby suit and clothes of a rather poor quality. Henriksen rummaged quickly through the pockets.

“At least the ladies found a clue for us”, Henriksen said, leafing through a rather tatty wallet. “And a card. 'Mr. Nicholas Davies'. He does not look like a Mr. Nicholas Davies.”

Sherlock had been examining the dead man's hands, and now turned his attention to the discarded suit jacket. I thought that he was going to ignore the inspector's remark, until he spoke.

“That is because he is not.”

Henriksen stared at him.

“How do you know that?” he demanded.

“Look at his left hand”, Sherlock said, raising it for inspection, “and the wear between the thumb and forefinger. This man is clearly a clerk of some description, as he writes for a living. Yet his house-keys were in his right-hand jacket pocket. Clearly they must have fallen out when he was moved, and then been replaced by a right-handed man, who placed then where he himself would have kept such things.”

Henriksen whistled his approval. 

“So he is a foreigner, then”, he said. “Can't trust them an inch!”

I forbore from stating the obvious. Like my friend Hiram Bullivant, few can be as xenophobic as foreigners who become more English than the English. Annoyingly, I still got a sharp look from some wiseacre in the room.

“I think that I can be fairly sure as to the cause of death”, I said, finishing my examination. “A very unusual one. He died of a heart-attack.”

Henriksen stared at me.

“But he cannot be more than thirty!” he protested.

“It may be that there was a congenital weakness in his heart, which gave way under a level of stress that a normal man could have coped with”, I said. “I would recommend a _post mortem_ to make certain, but there are no wounds or injuries on his body, or at least none that I can see, and no signs of poison having been administered. Unless the attack that killed him was induced in some way by someone who had prior knowledge of his weakness, this man died a natural death.”

“Then what the hell was he doing in those ladies' wardrobe?” Henriksen demanded.

“The Beringars were kind enough to provide us with information as to the name of the shop that produced both wardrobe and corpse”, Sherlock said, unfolding a piece of paper. “Doctor, as it is the weekend, I think you and I might take a stroll over there. Who is the local sergeant, Henriksen?”

The policeman looked at the address on the paper.

“Penrose, at Milton Avenue”, he said without hesitation. “A good sort; a bit young, but he knows his stuff. You'd definitely do well to talk to him before you go onto his patch, though. He's very protective.”

“We shall so do”, Sherlock said. 

+~+~+

Sergeant Lorimer Penrose was further proof, which I could have well done without, that policemen – even sergeants - seemed to be getting ever younger. He looked at us suspiciously when we introduced ourselves, though he visibly thawed when we mentioned our connection to Henriksen. 

“I've read all about you in the good doctor's stories, Mr. Holmes”, he said, looking Sherlock up and down. “Have you a reason to think that an actual crime was committed on my patch?”

“That is a difficult question to answer”, Sherlock said. “It may even be that no crime was committed at all. But until we visit Gorringe Street, I cannot know for certain.”

“I'll come with you”, the sergeant said. “That road used to be my beat when I started here, so I know it well. I'll just let them know I'm off out first.”

+~+~+

Gorringe Street turned out to be relatively not unpleasant for the area, to my surprise. Sergeant Penrose caught my expression.

“It used to be a lot worse”, he said, “but a fire came through twenty years back and destroyed a lot of the old buildings. They replaced most of the factories with new houses. Where you want is one of the few that survived the fire. Place used to be a huge warehouse, but they converted it into three smaller units.”

As we stood before an old building, I saw what he meant. The right and central parts of the edifice had been taken over by a stonemason's workshop, which was clearly very busy. To the left was the furniture shop that the Beringars must have purchased their wardrobe from, which apparently also sold antiques and other curios. I turned to speak to my friend, only to see he was smiling.

“As I thought”, he said. “Sergeant, if these were all one building, would there still be access between the three businesses in there now?”

“I don't know, sir”, Penrose admitted.

“Then let us find out!” Sherlock said, striding towards the furniture shop.

+~+~+

It said something for the London gossip network that, even though the story of the body in the wardrobe had not hit the newspapers as yet, the shop owner, Mr. Felix Leowitz, knew what had happened. He was about fifty, greying and with a hook nose. I felt instinctively that this man could probably sell me London Bridge if he put his mind to it. I did not hide behind Sherlock, but it was close.

“Such a tragedy”, he said, leaning on the counter as he spoke to us. “Gentlemen, may I presume to ask a question?”

“Of course”, Sherlock said.

“Was the wardrobe locked before Miss Beringar opened it?”

Sherlock looked at me.

“Yes”, I said. “I asked her that when I saw her off to the hotel, and she said that she had had to get the key from the removal men. They had nearly gone off with it.”

The shop-owner looked meaningfully at us.

“Ah”, Sherlock said.

“Ah what?” I asked, not at all testily.

“The wardrobe was not locked when Mr. Leowitz sold it”, my friend said. “Yet when Miss Beringar went to open it in her room, it was. Therefore something happened between the shop and her room, and only the delivery men had access to it.”

“And Fred”, Mr. Leowitz put in. We all looked at him in confusion.

“Who is 'Fred'?” I asked.

“Mr. Leighton, owner of the stonemason's next door”, he explained. “The wardrobe was big for my own door – I'd fitted one of those fancy top parts to it, and it would barely fit through – so Fred offered two of his men to carry it round the back and through his works, out to the men at the front. It was safer that way.”

I noticed that both Sherlock's and the sergeant's eyes were gleaming at this revelation.

“I think that Mr. Leighton might just have a few questions to answer”, the sergeant said quietly. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Leowitz. Your information has been invaluable.”

“One more question, if I may”, Sherlock said. “Do you happen to know if a Mr. Nicholas Davies works in the stonemason's?”

The shop-owner looked surprised.

“No”, he said, “but he is the owner's brother-in-law. I do hope that he is not involved in this business; I had always thought him a decent fellow.”

“I hope so too”, Sherlock said.

A coin changed hands, and my friend and the sergeant went through the door. I was about to follow when the shop-owner called me back.

“Doctor?”

“Yes?”

He gestured to a small case which he had just placed on the counter-top. It was silver, and not too ornate.

“Ideal to keep a pipe in”, he said with a knowing smile.

“I don't smoke”, I pointed out.

“Or as a present for someone?” he suggested. “And there is a nice-sized gap to store things like extra stems. Or maybe.... barley sugar?”

I remembered that Christmas was, as ever, approaching far too fast. And the box was rather attractive. I sighed, took out my wallet and paid the price on the label. The shop-owner wrapped it up for me, and handed me my receipt.

“Good hunting, doctor”, he said, as I hurried after my friend. I caught up with him by the stonemason's door, where he was giving the floor a hard stare.

“Our victim worked here”, he said.

“How do you know that?” the sergeant demanded.

“Because as well as the ink-marks on his hands, there was also a small quantity of stone dust ingrained under his finger-nails”, Sherlock explained. “I thought as much, and they do indeed work Chilmark stone here. He may have worked as a clerk, but some of the dust obviously got into his office. The question is; how exactly did he meet his end?”

+~+~+

Mr. Frederick Leighton was not pleased to see us, though he could hardly say so openly.

“I am very busy, gentlemen”, the man said. He was about forty, heavily tanned as if he had been in foreign parts, short and muscular. The other man in the room was much taller, paler and rather anaemic-looking, though of about the same age. 

“My brother-in-law, Mr. Nicholas Davies”, Mr. Leighton said, clearly reluctantly. “Gentlemen, can this not wait?”

“No”, Sherlock said curtly, “'this' cannot.”

He sat down in one of the chairs, and stared thoughtfully at both men. There was a pained silence.

“I do hope that you are both aware”, my friend said slowly, “that the concealment of a death is in itself a serious criminal offence, regardless of any involvement in causing said death. Your only hope, gentlemen, is to come clean with us, and tell us what happened. Otherwise the full force of a criminal investigation will be visited upon these works, with all the publicity that that would entail.”

Mr. Leighton flushed a horrible shade of white. His brother-in-law scowled, and stood up.

“Threats will not avail you here, Mr.....”

“Holmes”, Sherlock said. “Sherlock Holmes. Private detective. Please sit down, Mr. Davies. If you must start moving dead bodies around, then you must expect the consequences to be somewhat unpleasant.”

The man scowled again, but sat down. Mr. Leighton sighed.

“We didn't know”, he said flatly.

“Fred...” his brother-in-law began.

“No, Nick”, the manager said sternly. “He's right. I suppose it was my fault, sort of, but I didn't think..... well....”

His voice trailed off, then he seemed to pull himself together.

“We had a rush consignment the last few days, shipping to a Norman cathedral with the boat leaving noon today”, he began. “Everyone was stressed out, even though I'd promised the men ten per cent extra in their pay packets if we met the deadline. We just did, with two hours to spare.”

“Perhaps you had better tell us who the victim was”, Sherlock prompted.

“Tom MacHeath, an Ulsterman not long arrived in London”, the manager said. “We employed him three months back because he was a wizard with figures, though he was so anal about it – the merest ha'penny discrepancy, and you'd have thought it was the end of the world!”

“Ha'penny wise, pound foolish”, I said sagely.

“You may be right”, Mr. Leighton conceded. “Well, just as we were racing against the clock and looking like we might lose, he decided to make a fuss about another problem that he claimed to have found. I just wasn't in the mood, so I.... I did something rather petty. I placed one of those toy spiders in his ledger, the ones that bounce up when released. I thought it would just give him a shock!”

“It did”, I said, glaring at him. “ _A fatal one!_ ”

“I wasn't to know!” Mr. Leighton said defensively. “Nick was with me when I found the body, and we... well, we panicked. Then I remembered that that idiot Jew next door was having someone come and pick up a big piece, and that he had asked if they might come through my works to get it out. It was just too easy. Nick and I went round there, took the wardrobe into our works, and put the boy inside it. The furniture guys thought we were being helpful by lifting it onto their van for them.”

Mr. Davies put his head in his hands.

“Your attempt to give the man an alternate identity by placing one of your own cards in his wallet was ingenious”, Sherlock said, “though ultimately it enabled us to confirm your involvement. “And of course it was you who put the keys back into the dead man's suit pocket.”

Mr. Davies looked at him in astonishment.

“Fingerprints, I suppose”, he muttered.

“Actually no”, Sherlock said. “Your brother-in-law worked with Mr. MacHeath. He would have known that the man was left-handed, whereas you instinctively placed the keys back in his right-hand pocket, and he did not notice your error.”

The taller man groaned.

“This is all very well”, Sergeant Penrose said, “but a crime has been committed here.”

“Would a jury convict?” I asked dubiously. 

“I have a better suggestion”, Sherlock said. “Did Mr. MacHeath have any relatives?”

“Only his grandmother”, Mr. Leighton said, “and she came over with him. Reluctantly; he said that she always missed the Emerald Isle, and she would have gone back if it hadn't have been for him. Probably will, now.”

“Very well”, Sherlock said. He fixed the owner with a stern glare. “Mr. Leighton, this is a mess of _your_ creating, and unless you want a criminal charge and the almost certain ruination of your business, _you_ will have to fix it.”

The manager went pale again.

“”You will pay for Mr. MacHeath's grandmother to return to Ireland”, Sherlock said firmly, “and you will cover all the funeral expenses, even if she wants him buried in his homeland. You will then set up a fund to provide her with a generous pension for the rest of her life. Otherwise”, and he shook a warning finger at the manager, “Doctor Watson will have a most interesting new case to publicize!”

“It shall be done!” Mr. Leighton said fervently.

+~+~+

Mr. MacHeath's grandmother turned out to be a Mrs. Ringwould, and she did indeed wish to go back to Ireland. She was seventy-four years old, but she defied expectations (and quite probably the hopes of Mr. Leighton's wallet) by living on for a further nineteen years. Soon after she passed on, Mr. Leighton sold his business and emigrated with his family and brother-in-law's family to western Canada, where I believe they all remain to this day.

+~+~+

Our next case involved a scare for me, and Sherlock once again taking his abilities beyond England. Well, sort of......


End file.
